


The Morning After

by Lauren (notalwaysweak)



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Crack, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-16
Updated: 2004-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wanted to write a fic where the sex wasn't all squeaky-clean and perfect pairings. I think I may have overdone it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Annotations

**Author's Note:**

> Red Dwarf characters belong to Grant Naylor.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just thought I'd add my explanation, lifted from an RDSS chat, as to what I was writing about:
> 
> Lauren: Well, the idea is, like...  
> Lauren: Lister: *drinks a lot, gropes Rimmer*  
> Lauren: Rimmer: Get off me.  
> Lauren: Lister: I'm drunk. I love you.  
> Lauren: Rimmer: Okay. *they shag. it is bad*  
> Lauren: Lister: Well, that was bad. I'm not really gay. I'm going to mope about Kochanski.  
> Lauren: Rimmer: you do that. i'm going to go study.  
> Lauren: well, with a little more detail.
> 
> So, I couldn't keep from doing this. Why? I don't know. I had to do something to keep myself amused. Rimmer attempts to study. Lister is bored. The two, combined, are like water and sodium (bad, in other words). Usually, for veracity, I would get drunk and attempt to phoneticise Lister's drunkese, but not this time.

'Lister, if you don't stop playing with that, so help me God I'm going to tear it out of your hands.'

Lister puts the pen down reluctantly, then picks up and sniffs at Rimmer's can of cola. 'Smells like learning drugs.' He puts the can down with a little click and grins.

Rimmer looks panicked. 'But I was told they were odourless!' _And, like, you wouldn't want to incriminate yourself or anything, Arnold?_ He slides his reading glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose, sighing, then puts the glasses back on.

'Rim-mer. They're illeeeegal,' Lister sing-songs, circling the table like a shark -- no, scratch that, a playful dolphin, looking for someone to throw it a raw, wriggling fish. 'What's this for?'

'It's a set square, it's for technical drawing.'

'And this?'

'Put that down! And don't put your fingers anywhere near your mouth until you wash them.' Rimmer snickers at Lister's stunned -- and revolted - expression. 'I'm only kidding. It's a T-square. Also for technical drawing. Although technically I'm not using it for technical drawing at the moment, since you're being such a pain. I might have to insert it in you if you don't cut it out.'

Lister does that funny thing where he scrunches up his face to express disgust, tongue hanging out, and rolls his eyes. Moves around the table again. Rimmer thinks: _how the hell does a man built like a hippo move so fucking gracefully?_ Then thinks: _why the hell did I just think that?_

'But man, I'm bored.'

'Good,' Rimmer's mouth says entirely without the benefit of his brain directing it. 'Bored is better than mooning around over Kochanski. Let me tell you, I can handle bored a lot easier than _that_ crap.'

Lister looks shocked, then sad, then angry. 'What's up your arse? I only broke up with her three weeks ago!'

'Lister. I. Am. Studying. You don't like me interrupting you attempting to fart the national anthem, I don't like you interrupting me studying.'

Lister mooches away and throws himself dramatically onto the bed. Rimmer realises that he hasn't written a word in at least ten minutes and sighs. For a moment the sleeping quarters are filled with only this, and nothing more.

'Rimmer?'

'Now what, El Slobbo?'

Lister makes an aggrieved _humph_ and refuses to say anything else, so Rimmer ignores his silence and goes back to reading his textbook. The tip of his pen is poised over the paper, ready to take notes. He has been studying for half an hour and so far the only thing written on the page is _What the hell is a quasar anyway?_ This vital, burning question is neatly boxed and surrounded with stars. The margins of the page also have stars, along with tiny interlocking hearts without initials in them.

'Ah.'

'Discovered something?' Lister asks.

'Yes.' Rimmer hasn't, but he does write down the page number that the index tells him will have information about quasars. Actually, it's half a chapter. He draws a double box around this and underlines it.

'What?' This time Lister's voice is right next to his ear and, startled, Rimmer turns his head sharply. _How the hell did he get down so quietly?_ he is thinking. Except that he stops thinking this because, as he turns his head, his mouth kind of brushes against Lister's.

'Smeg, Lister! Why'd you have to be so close...' Rimmer's voice drops into the same void his astronavigation knowledge occupies as Lister, a curious expression in his eyes, leans in and _actually_ kisses him. The real deal. No vague brush of lips and nose hitting nose and glasses pressed into his cheek this; this is Lister's mouth, warm and soft against his, lips vaguely slick with saliva, then said lips opening slightly and his tongue flicking over Rimmer's lips.

Rimmer does what comes naturally: he snatches his head away and punches Lister as hard as he can.

Lister takes a step back, clutching his shoulder, but his eyes are clearer now and he mumbles something that might be an apology before grabbing his jacket and fleeing the room.

Rimmer rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully and takes his reading glasses off, setting them down next to his can of drink-and-learning-drugs. He can't think of anything he's learnt this whole study session, except that his nose hurts where his glasses pinch it, and Lister has a really soft mouth. He hopes like hell that _that_ thought doesn't cycle in his head all night.

* * *

Lister wanders for almost an hour, occasionally smacking himself across the forehead when the thought of Rimmer's mouth sneaks back into his conscious thoughts. He doesn't want to think about that, about the way Rimmer's mouth felt kind of hard and unforgiving against his, those usually pinched lips surprised, yielding, the press of his teeth behind them. No, he doesn't want to think about that.

Eventually, he finds a pub. It's a familiar pub. He supposes his feet must have led him here just as they lead him home from it every Friday night. It's the Copa, Copacabana, and it's open, and when he walks through the doorway a voice calls him over, and Petersen is there with Chen and Selby.

Lister sits down. He lets Chen get a round in, and drinks his pint without thinking about it. He can faintly taste cola instead of lager. It might be this taste, lingering even after his third pint, that makes him ask:

'So, have any of you ever... you know, fancied a bloke?'

Petersen snorts beer down his nose and splatters the table with amber fluid and snot. Chen starts coughing. It's Selby, the quieter, sensible one, who asks:

'Why? Do you?'

'No! Nah, nah, nah, it was just a... thing...' Lister manages to giggle foolishly without sounding like he's faking it. 'I'm too pissed for this.'

'You've only had three pints,' Selby presses. 'Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell us?'

'Come off it,' Lister says. 'You know about me and Kochanski. I'm no smegging poof.' He fancies he sees a look of disappointment cross Selby's face.

'Get the next round in, Selb, it's yours,' Petersen says. 'I've spilt mine.' He is attempting to mop up the table with his hat. One of the two waitresses -- who don't take orders, but just take away empty mugs and clean up vomit, so don't really wait on the tables -- comes over and wipes the table down with a wet cloth, her eyes speaking her scorn.

Selby gets up and gets the next round, and the drinking goes on.

* * *

Rimmer is asleep when Lister crashes into the room at three AM, but is woken sufficiently by the noise to protest when Lister tries to crawl into bed with him.

'I'm too smegginpished to geddup the ladder,' Lister slurs, giggling.

'You're not sleeping in here! Get off.'

Lister relents and heaves himself half off Rimmer. 'Sorry, sorry.' He collapses with his head on Rimmer's pyjama-ed chest. 'Man, I'm reallysorry, k?'

'Get _off_ me!'

'Rim-mer... saidIwas sorry.' Lister snorts and coughs. It's revolting. 'C'n I sleepere?'

'_Lister_.'

Lister attempts to get up and his groin brushes against Rimmer's. Not like the brush of lips earlier. Harder. In a few senses.

'Get _off_.'

Lister tumbles to the floor, hits his head, and begins to cry pathetically. 'Nobody loves meee...'

Rimmer considers kicking him, preferably into the corridor, but doesn't. They've been rooming together for months and months now, and he's never seen Lister this bad before. He was teary for the first couple of weeks after the Kochanski split, but mostly quiet and withdrawn, not like this noisy emotional creature.

'Come on, I'll help you into your bunk.'

'Nahnah. Jus' gimmeblanket.'

Rimmer gets his blanket and pillow.

'Ya bloodychampion.'

Rimmer tucks the blanket around Lister as best as he can, then lifts Lister's head and puts the pillow under it. Lister's drink-bleared eyes blink up at him.

'Think 'm bitpished.'

'Could be,' Rimmer agrees, trying not to laugh. He's so pathetic, cocooned in his blanket. 'Are you going to sleep, or do I have to kick you out?'

Lister reaches up blindly. 'Sleepdown here? Withme?'

Rimmer shivers at the touch on his shoulder. 'Lister, _really_...'

'Please man, so looonely.' He sounds like he's about to cry again, so Rimmer gets his own blanket and pillow and settles between Lister and the bunks. It's uncomfortable, but not much more than the bunks themselves; the Space Corps don't like to waste money on things so frivolous as anything nice for their members.

Seven minutes pass, each marked by a silent change of the numbers on the digital clock Rimmer can just see if he lifts his head and holds it on the right angle. Those seven minutes are uneventful. But as the clock ticks over to three-nineteen, Lister rolls over, reaching out, and clings to Rimmer.

_What the _smeg_?_

'Lister...'

Then Lister's hand is groping, clumsy but with perfectly recognisable intent, between Rimmer's legs.

'_Lister_!' Rimmer means for it to come out indignant, angry even, but anything but the way it does come out: choked off, and not very forceful at all. 'What _are_ you doing?' He's really trying to speak properly, but drunk or not Lister's hand is right on target.

'C'mon man I...' Lister huffs, and Rimmer feels Lister's cock pressing against his thigh. '...think 'm in love with you.'

'You _what_?'

Lister's hand struggles with the logic of Rimmer's boxers for a few seconds before finding its way, sliding between Rimmer's skin and the waistband. Smooth satin on the back of his hand, rough curls on the palm. Then smooth satin on the back, hot skin on the palm.

Rimmer can't be reacting this way, but he is. He is hardening under Lister's slightly painful strokes, and after a few of them he is pressing up against Lister's hand, and his breath is coming in little gasps.

Then Lister's hand goes away, and Rimmer protests this with a little mewing sound from the back of his throat. It doesn't matter that it was Lister's hand, it only matters that, with it gone, he is not going to be satisfied.

''Sokay man. Just f'raminute.' Rimmer realises Lister is just working out something to do with clothing and the removal thereof, and relaxes somewhat. Although not enough to let his brain acknowledge what is actually happening. Not _that_.

Lister's given up on his shirt and has just dragged his jeans and underpants off instead. Rimmer willingly, almost eagerly raises his own hips and pulls his boxers off. Lister's hand finds its place again and Rimmer helps guide him into some kind of rhythm that might leave him without a case of blue balls.

The thing about this is, Rimmer isn't too experienced -- one roll in the hay with Yvonne McGruder does not a stud make, and just as Lister's thumb slicks over the wet head of his cock, he cries out and comes violently into his roommate's hand.

'Sorry.'

''Sokay,' Lister says. 'D'ya wanna...'

'What?'

Lister kind of shrugs. Rimmer gets the picture, and rolls onto his side, then his stomach, almost reluctant now that he's come (the stuff in your balls is what blocks your brain from thinking, his father had said once when Howard came home from a drive-in movie with a slapped face) and can think about what's going on.

He feels the blunt nudge of Lister's cock against his anus and pulls away, as much as he can when he's positioned like this.

'Wha?'

'No. You'll hurt me. Need something.'

'Sorry.' Lister realises his hand is still smeared with Rimmer's semen and uses it, although it's a weird thought -- using Rimmer's own come as lubricant.

Rimmer sighs, then giggles into the pillow. 'That too, although I have a bottle of moisturiser under my mattress.'

'Why... no, don' tell me...' Lister is still pissed as a fart and almost collapses as he balances over Rimmer. He presses against Rimmer again. 'Okay?'

'Whatever.' _Okay_ would not be Rimmer's word, but although he's completely sober and Lister is not, and although his mind is screaming in vague protest and Lister's is probably not even working, maybe _okay_ will do. Rimmer's a sucker for anyone who will even pretend to love him, and...

And whatever the end of that thought was supposed to be, it is lost as Lister's cock works its way (possibly completely independently of Lister's mind actually directing it) through the tight ring of muscle and in.

'Oh God...' Rimmer has another flashback. His father again. Explaining to them one morning just what the Seventh Day Hoppist Bible says should happen to homosexuals, those bound-for-Hell sinners, second only to mad axemurderers. Maybe God isn't the best person to be invoking here.

It's vaguely painful and he wishes he'd at least gone to the loo first, but for all of that his cock, trapped under his own body and Lister's shifting weight, is hardening again. One day, far in the future, Nirvana Crane will be rather impressed by this recovery rate, but right now that hurts too because he can't do anything about it.

Carefully moving, trying not to lose Lister (because that first penetration was the worst and he doesn't want it again), Rimmer manages to get onto his hands and knees. He spreads his legs -- Lister moans in response -- and with one arm under him for support, turning his body into a tripod, Rimmer grasps his own cock and begins to match Lister's not-slow-not-fast-but-vaguely-regular pace.

He never really imagined anything like this when he thought about love. He always thought of holding hands with a girl somewhere, walking through fields, picking flowers, making daisy chains and getting married in a church. He never thought love would be a slightly sticky cock up his arse and another man moaning his name.

Lister _is_ moaning his name. 'Rimmer... oh... Rimmer...' like that. Like the finest of clich . Like a lover.

'Oh,' says Rimmer, not so much as a moan but with an air of realisation. And feels Lister come as five or six hard pulses like racing heartbeats. Like their hearts. The feeling makes him come again, a weak dribble of semen compared to the first time, but the actual physical sensation just the same.

He loses balance and slides to land flat, a distinct _squish_ sound coming from the direction of his groin; another echoing it as Lister pulls out.

''m really pished,' is the last thing Rimmer hears before post-coital unconsciousness take him.

* * *

The alarm clock goes off with its annoying _baaaaarrrrrzzzzz_. Rimmer reaches out sleepily to turn it off, and his hand finds only a handful of fuzzy hair and the curve of a skull. _What... where?_

His eyes won't open. _Think about it a sec_, his mind advises him. _You really_ don't_ want to know where you are_.

He hasn't... hasn't... has he?

And then his eyes open, at the same time as a mumbling pain in his backside announces itself, and he knows he has.

_Smeg_, says his mind helpfully. _You really _did_ shag a bloke_.

Rimmer drags himself to his feet and hits the snooze button on the alarm clock. Lister is asleep, lying on his back, mouth open, mumbling in his sleep. The blankets are tangled over his body, thankfully.

'Kris...' Lister snorts and begins snoring.

_And he said he loved _you_._

_Shut up_, Rimmer thinks back at it, going into the shower, penis bobbing ahead of him, entirely nonresponsive to these thoughts. _Shut up and leave me alone and let me scrub my brain clean_.

_Sucker_, his mind adds, then falls silent.

In the shower the washcloth passed between his legs comes up with a smear of blood and semen and... yuck. _My poor anus_, Rimmer thinks to himself. _I'm sorry. I didn't mean to treat you so badly._

Fortunately, it doesn't speak back to him.

He washes his hair twice, just to give Lister time to respond to the second call of the alarm. When he comes out of the shower Lister is wearing a towel around his waist and goes into the shower without speaking to him.

_Okay_, Rimmer thinks, and sits down with an orange, peeling it slowly, taking the GM sticker off the peel and sticking it to the table.

He's almost done with the orange when the shower stops running. He puts the last segment in his mouth and sucks the juice out, and is just chewing on it thoughtfully when Lister says:

'I'm sorry about last night, man.'

'Really?' Rimmer tries to sound disinterested as he turns to face Lister, who is still only wearing the towel but this time has water beaded all over his caramel chest.

'I was drunk... I think everyone goes through a kinda experimental stage at some point... I guess what I'm tryin' to say,' Lister manages finally, Rimmer raising an eyebrow at him, 'is that last night shouldn't have happened.'

'You don't really love me then?' Rimmer asks, casual, hiding his edgy tone with a yawn that is entirely real. They have slept perhaps four hours.

'Oh God, did I say that?' Lister laughs, not realising the importance of his response, not seeing the way Rimmer's heart crumbles a little at the edges because of it. 'Smeg. Are you on shift today?'

'Studying,' Rimmer says. 'Got special dispensation.'

'Ah.'

There is silence. Rimmer turns back to the table and starts to shred the orange peel into equal small pieces. When he looks up again, Lister is dressed and at the door.

'Well. See ya later.' He pauses. 'If you want, we could go for--'

'No,' Rimmer says, just like always, before Lister gets out the words '--a drink after work.'

Lister shrugs. 'Well. I thought I'd offer. Bye.' Turns away. Goes out. As far as he's concerned the night before's already forgotten. Funny, really. Rimmer supposes he's technically had a more meaningful relationship with Lister than with anyone else even in his life. Has this changed everything? Will they ever be able to look one another in the eye again?

Does _he_ love _Lister_?

'Smeg off,' Rimmer says aloud, addressing only himself. 'Get real. Get a life. Get a clue. He's a _man_. You're not _gay_. So shut the smeg up.'

Still, he gets very little study done that day, and the doodled hearts in the margins occasionally have the initials D.L. in them.


	2. Anecdotes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lister's drunken encounter has a lot of repercussions. Please note: Rick Thesen and Sam Murray are not Mary Sues or anything (unlike Fortune, who is a Certain Someone's Sue *coughs*). They appear in the original script of 'The End' as a gay couple whose ashes Lister flushes into space. Sam Murray also appears briefly in 'Holoship' when the boyz are choosing Rimmer's replacement.

Lister isn't coming home tonight.

Rimmer sits in their quarters and works his way diligently through the textbook, highlighting, circling, noting, but Lister isn't coming home tonight.

They have an extra shift tomorrow morning, annoying, since Rimmer has been asking for time off to study and mostly getting it, but Lister isn't coming home tonight.

Why isn't Lister coming home tonight? Rimmer shifts in his seat, feels a flare of some odd unfamiliar sensation between his buttocks, groans quietly, and drops his glasses on the table. He thinks he knows why Lister isn't coming home tonight.

* * *

Dave Lister: Scouser, straight as a needle (or so he thought before last night), no children (as yet, given that his fathering of himself has not yet taken place, nor his parallel-universe mothering of twins). Morose at times. Has a sweet side, provided he is covered in chocolate.

Usually, the Arcadia bar wouldn't be Lister's first choice for a drinking retreat; it caters mostly to couples, has regular theme nights, and the karaoke competition usually sets his teeth on edge. But tonight he wants to be alone, and he knows that Petersen, Chen and Selby won't think to look for him here.

He sits at the bar, two empty seats away from Yvonne McGruder and her roommate, and contemplates one lager after another. Contemplation, in this case, involving long soulful stares deep into the heart of the glass, then long, long drinks, not spilling any, but not stopping until every drop is gone.

'Rough day?' a female voice asks solicitously.

Lister nods, then shakes his head. 'No. The night before.'

The woman, one of the barmaids, pats his hand understandingly. She glances along the bar, sees that her boss is busy, and pulls Lister a beer, putting it down in front of him. 'Here. On the house. I hate to see people looking sad.'

'Thanks,' Lister says. This beer goes down as fast as the others and the barmaid shakes her head.

'She must really've upset you.'

'He.' It comes out before he can stop himself.

Admirably, her only reaction is a quick eyebrow flicker. 'Thought you were the one dating Kochanski.'

'I was, but...'

Lister is saved from trying to explain his inexplicable situation by the woman's boss, who yells at her to get back to work. She winks, pats his hand again, and whisks off down the bar to clean up a puddle of spilled cask wine. Goon fumes fill the air. Lister would move further away, but he's at the end of the bar.

McGruder's roommate is staring at him. She says something to McGruder, who turns around and looks at him, then turns back and laughs. What are they laughing at? Are they laughing at him, for some obscure reason? Lister turns away and scans the row of bottles behind the bar; maybe it's time to move on to something a little harder.

* * *

The barmaid kicks off the karaoke, taking the microphone and doing a couple of test lines before nodding to herself and switching the screen on behind her. A Mental as Anything song comes on and Lister smiles a little although he doesn't know it, just because the barmaid seems to know what she's doing, hitting all the right notes with her voice and with her body.

'Hey there, you with the sad face  
Come up to my place  
And live it up...'

Once she's finished, two of the regulars get up and perform a love song, staring soulfully into each others' eyes. Lister's attention wanders a bit. He's thinking about how everyone else's love stories seem to end happily. In his case, his fling with Kochanski ended with... well, nothing really. And with Rimmer? Squishiness and some stupid drunken words and then some more stupid sober words the next morning.

Not that that was a love story, of course. Not with _Rimmer_. Couldn't be.

* * *

Yvonne McGruder: never married, pregnant (not that she knows it), single and bendy. At the Arcadia tonight potentially to pick up, although the chances are slim: there are few men in the bar without women firmly attached to their sides, except for Lister and, further down the bar, Todhunter. Who, in any case, has his hand inching up another man's thigh.

McGruder's talking with her roommate.

'Give it up, Fortune. Lister would never shag a bloke.'

'But who d'you think it was?' Fortune never lets go of a notion once she's grabbed it by the balls and started shaking. 'His mate Petersen?'

'No way!' McGruder protests. 'Petersen's entirely butter-side-up.'

'And how would _you_ kn... You shagged Petersen!' Fortune claps with revelation, dancing in her seat (and out of it as well, breasts rivalling a trampoline for bouncy enjoyment).

'I so did _not_ shag Petersen.'

'You did!'

'Not.'

'Did!'

'It was a bloody blow job, alright!' McGruder snaps. 'And he said he'd call me. Besides, if Lister's shagging any bloke, it's that daft roommate of his, Rimmer. We dated once and he never called me back. He must be gay.'

Fortune appraises her friend. 'What, you think you're that much of a man-eater?'

'For-_tune_. He was so bloody desperate. I bet he was doing that whole, you know, last minute fling thing to see if he really was gay or if he was imagining it.'

'Did you shag _him_?'

'Fortune! Can't you go five minutes without talking about sex?'

'No.'

McGruder sighs, unaware that, further down the bar, an on-the-pull Todhunter has heard their entire conversation.

'Besides...'

'What?'

'I didn't even _swallow_ with Petersen. Leaned over to the loo and spat.'

'Oh, was he disappointed?'

'To tell you the truth, I don't think he even noticed.'

* * *

Frank Todhunter: married, bisexual, three children, wife currently on Miranda with their children (and in a less innocent sense, the postman, not that Todhunter knows this). Currently with his hand higher than most laws of decorum allow on Deck Sergeant Rick Thesen's thigh.

'Did you hear that?'

'Hear what?' Thesen asks, coyly playing along.

'McGruder just said that Lister's shagging that roommate of his, Rimmer.' Todhunter ponders. He's always thought Rimmer rather an eyecatcher, and wishes that he'd had a chance before Lister. He doesn't particularly want any sloppy seconds from the pathetic example of humankind currently hunched over a lager at the other end of the bar.

Thesen perks up. 'Rimmer? Isn't he the technician? Oooo, he's got a way with that 14B...' He sighs melodramatically. 'What a wonder!'

'Rick, you're supposed to be married to that man of yours.'

'Sam?' Thesen pouts prettily. 'I was going to bring you home as a present for him...'

Todhunter smirks. 'Well, maybe you can bring him home _two_ presents.'

Thesen catches on immediately. 'You devil, Frank!'

Todhunter smiles and, ignoring the fact that potentially everyone can see them, slides his hand right up Thesen's thigh and squeezes the prominent bulge at his groin. Thesen gasps and wriggles, then slides off the bar stool, linking his hand with Todhunter's and mincing out of the bar, Todhunter watching his bum wiggle with burgeoning delight. When they get back to Thesen's room he'll palm Thesen off on the boyfriend -- Sam Murray, or whatever his name is -- and keep Rimmer for himself.

* * *

Felicia Fortune: bendy as a Slinky, wearing a boob tube and a miniskirt that are little more than two strategically placed ribbons. Currently contemplating someone across the room. Someone important across the room. Kristine Kochanski.

'You think she'd shag me?'

'Fortune, if you say shag one more time I'm going to spank you.'

Fortune grins. '_Shag_... pile carpet.'

McGruder groans and, very carefully, smacks Fortune's upper arm.

'Baby.' Fortune grins. 'Had no idea you were into that.'

'Baby me and you'll be using a colostomy bag for a toilet,' McGruder replies absently, her eyes fixated on nothing at all... unless it's the barmaid.

Fortune's ears prick up. 'Hey, did you hear Todhunter? There's an orgy happening in Thesen and Murray's quarters!'

'Really?'

'Y_vonne_...'

* * *

Arnold J. Rimmer: temporarily unsure of his sexuality, but looking very yummy wearing his reading glasses and intently scrutinising one of his textbooks.

Knock.

'Who is it?' Rimmer calls, sure it's Lister, so drunk he's unable to intelligibly use the voice-access to open the door.

'Todhunter,' comes the reply.

'Oh? Open,' Rimmer calls.

The door opens.

So does Rimmer's mouth.

'Todhunter...?'

'Call me Frank.'

'Frank... you're wearing a bowtie?'

'Yes, Arnold.'

'You're wearing... _only_ a bowtie...'

'Yes, Arnold.'

'On your...'

'Yes, Arnold.'

'Oh, come on,' Thesen says, flipping his wrist. 'Are you going to take all night? Tham thaid he'd be waiting, and whipped cream doeth go hard you know.'

Rimmer's attention momentarily diverts to Thesen. 'Are you being really, really camp?'

'Yes,' says Thesen. 'Frank here gets off on it.'

'Oh,' says Rimmer, not sure what to do with that piece of information, but temporarily filing it under 'Aaargh'.

'Alright, Rimmer. Here's the deal,' Todhunter says. 'We know you're gay. So we want you to come to Thesen's room with us. It'll be a lot of fun.'

Rimmer closes his mouth, then opens it again to say, 'But I'm not gay.'

'Lister said you were.'

Rimmer closes his mouth again, and then his eyes. 'Lister,' he grits, 'was very drunk. I,' he continues, 'was very sorry for him. And,' he finishes, 'it's very hard to explain this when a man wearing only a bowtie on his penis is leaning in the doorway to your sleeping quarters.'

'Should I take the bowtie off?' Todhunter tries.

Rimmer thumps his head down on the table.

* * *

Kristine Kochanski: guiltily drinking in one of the ship's more peaceful bars to avoid her so-called current boyfriend and also her ex, manages to spot both from across the room. The ex is at the end of the bar, neck-deep in a lager. The current is at the front table... and he appears to be waving dollarpound notes at the barmaid, encouraging her to, 'Come on luv, show us yer knockers!'

'Bastard!' goes Kochanski, leaping at him.

'Krissie!' goes Lister, leaping at her.

'Shit...' goes Tim the chef, nearly shitting himself.

'Oh no you bloody don't,' goes Fortune, leaping at everyone, smacking a couple of heads (Lister's and Tim's) together, and dragging Kochanski away. 'Fear not fair maiden!' she says. 'I will save thee!'

'...somehow,' puts in McGruder, before succumbing to alcohol and gravity and sliding gracefully sideways off her bar stool.

The barmaid notes the activity and begins singing 'Chain of Fools'.

* * *

Watch this. It's like far-more-than-three-card monte. Lister and Tim: under the table, unconscious, unmoving. McGruder: sprawled on the Arcadia floor. Fortune and Kochanski: making a rapid exit via the front door, as quickly as possible. Rimmer: being coaxed (slowly) out of his quarters by Todhunter and the ever-more-camp Thesen. Murray: waiting for his 'wife' to come home with their anniversary gift, wearing only a thin layer of slowly solidifying whipped cream.

_Round and round..._

* * *

'That bastard,' says Kochanski, stopping, Fortune stopping with her, some distance from the Arcadia. 'That utter, utter bastard.'

'I know. _Men_!' Fortune says.

Kochanski peers at her through eyes slightly fogged by alcohol. 'You're McGruder's roommate, aren't you? Destiny?'

'Fortune,' says Fortune. 'But you can call me what you want.'

Kochanski snickers. 'Yeah, I've heard about you.'

Fortune's heart sinks. This could mean an end to her chances with the divine Navigation Officer. 'What have you heard, exactly?'

'Oh. Just that you're kinda insane,' Kochanski says vaguely.

Fortune is only remotely relieved.

'Listen, I have a thought. Since you've just found out that your boyfriend's a womanising bastard--' Fortune tries not to put the accent on the _you_, as the rest of the crew have known that Tim-the-chef goes for anything with (large) breasts since he joined the crew '--maybe you should come back to my place and have a drink.'

'What about McGruder? Shouldn't you get her?' Kochanski asks. 'I think she passed out.'

'One, she's used to it. Two, I'm not going back in there, it's too scary. And three, she'll probably wake up in half an hour and keep partying.' Fortune shrugs elaborately, doing a rather decent job of hiding the fact that, aside from the notion of going back into the Arcadia being scary, she has just been lying ninety-nine percent more than she usually likes to lie to people she's trying to pick up. (her usual lie is, 'No, I got mugged last week, can you pay?', and that only to gullible males).

'Alright,' Kochanski says.

_It's obvious she's still in shock, the poor woman_, Fortune thinks as she slips an arm casually about Kochanski's shoulders and begins escorting her in the general direction of home. _The terrible, terrible shock of seeing her boyfriend for the chauvinistic pig he always has been. And it's only my human duty to make her feel better. Oh yes. Much better_. She pushes the button for the lift and debates the timing of her next move.

* * *

_...and round they go..._

* * *

'Did I ever tell you my roommate's a bit bendy?' McGruder asks. 'Plus she's got this obsession with Kochanski that's just scary. Keeps talking about how much she wants to 'introduce her to the pleasures of the flesh'. I tell her, I tell her, 'Fortune, she's got a fucking boyfriend. I'm sure she knows something about it already.' And do you know what she says? She says, 'Aw, Von, that doesn't count!' She says, 'Von, you know what the useless piece of flesh on the end of a dick's called? A man!' And she just ignores all the good advice I give her, you know? It's bloody ridiculous. She's an embarrassment to the crew, going and getting drunk and raving on about Kochanski, how gorgeous bloody Kochanski is. I mean nobody ever does that about me, not even Rimmer, who's apparently shagging Lister.' She takes a breath. '_Lister_! Kochanski's ex! Fortune's gone off with Kochanski, whose ex is apparently shagging my ex, and I've got to tell you that if this bloody ship ever gets lost in space and we have to mate to survive, we're _rooted_, because everyone's bloody gay!' She rolls her eyes. 'Either that or instant incest, I mean, the next generation's probably limited to about three people anyway, with all this non-heterosexual sex happening. Not that I have anything against gay people of course, that would be kind of pointless, I'd have to shoot every second person who came into our room, not to mention Fortune herself, and hell, my grandmother always used to say that every woman's got a bit of lesbian in her. Kochanski certainly will if Fortune gets her way tonight. She's unstoppable, that woman, when she knows what she wants she goes and gets it and doesn't give up. Admirable, really, unless she's going after something impossible... although I think Kochanski's a bit vulnerable tonight, you know, given that arsecunt over there on the floor... well, both of them really, her ex and Tim both, and God only knows what's going to happen when they come around...'

The bottom of the bar stool doesn't make a reply, but perhaps it's only thinking about the right response.

* * *

_...where they stop..._

* * *

Rimmer really doesn't want Todhunter to take the bowtie off. Todhunter has switched from outright asking to a kind of subtle nudgewinking.

'Well, Arnold--' _Arnold_! bloody hell '--if you say you're not gay, but we know you slept with Lister, maybe you have some unresolved issues you should be working out. We can help you there.'

'Yeah,' puts in Thesen, who is beginning to look dangerously bored, 'repressed sexuality is a dangerous thing. Come with us. We'll help you discover the true you.'

Rimmer sighs, looks at his textbooks, then stands up.

* * *

_...nobody knows..._


	3. Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after the night before  
> McGruder's passed out on the floor  
> Rimmer's in a bit of a funk  
> He's woken up in [spoiler's] bunk  
> Lister's [spoiler] [spoiler] [spoiler]  
> Kochanski's [spoiler] [spoiler] [dirty words]... oh, just read it.

Here they all are. Some of them haven't moved far. Others have moved beyond their boundaries. Still others have moved out of the closet. The night has been eventful. Extremely eventful...

* * *

McGruder prises her eyelids apart. She has been moved from the floor up onto a table, and the fire blanket from on the wall is draped over her. In the dimness of the closed bar she can just see two other shapes on the floor some distance away, the sounds of their snoring about as melodious as someone pruning back trees with a chainsaw.

She feels about the way she'd expect after a night of heavy drinking; a small band of imps are energetically pounding out the backbeat of the headbanging section of _Bohemian Rhapsody_ on her frontal lobes, and the world has gone the colour of technicolour vomit. She wonders vaguely why there seems to be half a banana stuck to her cheek, then sniffs a nearby glass and recognises the smell of a daiquiri. Ah. The answers are there; you just have to know where to look. The banana comes off her cheek easily when given an experimental tug, and McGruder plops it into the glass.

'Good morning, Miss McGruder,' says a voice from behind the bar. The barmaid, looking just as fresh and perky as last night, only a slight shadowing under the eyes indicating a sleepless night. 'Can I get you an aspirin and some water?'

'Two aspirins, two waters,' says McGruder. When they come she gulps down the aspirin, chases them with one glass of water, and upends the other glass over her head. 'That's better.'

The barmaid raises her eyebrows. 'Interesting night?'

'What I saw of it.'

An understanding nod. 'Do you need directions back to your room? I could call for assistance if you'd like, or you can sit down for half an hour and wake up properly before you go.' All this delivered with a practiced smile.

'How can you be perky without sleeping?' McGruder asks.

'Two litres of Coca-Cola and six No-Doz tablets,' the barmaid admits. 'Right now I could probably bounce off the ceiling without assistance. Now, about your room...?'

'I'll manage alone,' McGruder says. 'It's not far. At least, I don't think it's far.' She spots an open packet of crisps on the bar and her stomach growls. She fights down an oily wave of nausea and manages a wavery smile. 'I'd better go, or I'll be marking the path with a trail of sick.'

'You'll be all right,' says the barmaid. 'Just, um... watch out when you get back to your room.'

'I know,' says McGruder. 'Gay, gay, gay, gay.'

The barmaid blinks. 'Well, yes. I overheard your conversation with... er... Mr. Bar Stool.'

'Oh God, I really was out of it, wasn't I?'

There is only one response, and the barmaid doesn't bother with it, instead waving McGruder in the direction of the door and absentmindedly beginning to eat the abandoned crisps.

* * *

Kochanski wants to know which crewmember uses banana-scented body lotion. She really wants to know this because the smell is filling her nostrils, and until she finds out whose bed she's in she's damn well going to keep playing possum.

'Kris.'

Either her bedmate of the night before is some perverted bloke who likes bananas and has a very feminine voice, or she's done the teen-with-uncertainties-about-her-sexuality thing about fifteen years too late.

'Kris.'

Definitely female. Kochanski doesn't lick her lips; doesn't need to. The taste of the other is still in her mouth, salt-sweet, honey-bitter. She keeps her breathing even, tries to stop her eyes from opening, keeps perfectly still.

'Kristine Kochanski.' The voice doesn't sound annoyed; rather, it seems amused. 'I know you're awake. I've been watching you for ten minutes. Besides, you stopped snoring.'

'I do not snore!' Kochanski opens her eyes.

'See, I told you so,' says the owner of the voice, but Kochanski barely hears it. She's staring into a pair of rather pretty eyes, set in a face that goes with the eyes the way a perfect picture frame can accentuate its contents. A wide, lazy smile only widens further under Kochanski's gaze. Hair dyed red with the barest hint of brown roots the only giveaway tumbles loose over the pillow, twined with Kochanski's own light brown strands. Kochanski reaches out to touch, to see if that cheek is really as smooth as it looks, and her still mysterious companion lets her do it.

'Fortune,' Kochanski says, memory obligingly providing the name.

'At your service.'

'Apparently so.' A tingling begins between her thighs. She remembers, too, the reason for that. 'Can I ask you something? I think I already know the answer.'

'Go ahead.'

'Did we make love last night?'

'That depends on whether we love each other, doesn't it?'

'Fortune!'

'Otherwise,' Fortune continues, 'it's more of a quick shag, right?'

'Fortune!' Kochanski starts tickling her and the two battle it out for a few minutes before Fortune pins Kochanski's arms to her sides, cuddling her close.

'Well, I know I don't want to make a run for it just yet,' Fortune says eventually.

'You're just saying that because these are your quarters.' Doubt assails Kochanski for a moment and she looks around, noting the unfamiliar possessions. 'These are your quarters, right? And is that your banana-scented body lotion?'

'Yes, these are my quarters, and no, that's not my body lotion. That's Yvonne's, and she's not going to be very happy when she gets back and realises we spilt it.'

'We spilt it?' A memory returns, and Kochanski grins sheepishly. 'Oh yeah, we spilt it. Did we ever spill it. I don't think it could be more spilt if--'

'Kris?'

'Yeah?'

'Shut up.'

* * *

No combination of As and Gs and Hs and Rs would be enough to describe the blood-curdling shriek that Rimmer greets the world with.

'Good morning, Arnie,' Todhunter, Thesen, and Murray chorus. They're sitting at the table in various stages of undress.

Rimmer's face bears the expression of a man who has faced the unspeakable. It also bears a wide smear of banana-flavoured lube.

'What happened last night?' he manages to say.

'What didn't happen?' Todhunter asks. 'I think we've discovered something about you, Arnie...'

Rimmer discreetly covers his genitals with his hands. 'What would that be?'

'You're not straight,' Thesen says. 'At the very least you're bi.'

'Which is really the best of both worlds,' Murray says soothingly.

Rimmer casts about for his clothing. Aside from his boxers - which Todhunter is wearing -- he can't see any of it. 'Where're my clothes?'

'Probably in the same place you left them last night,' Murray says. 'After the whipped cream got on them you put them in our washing machine.'

Of course they wouldn't just use the communal washing machines down at the laundromat. The sort of things they would want to wash would be far too personal for public scrutiny. Rimmer gets up, considers using a sheet as a toga, then dismisses the idea. They've already seen him far too naked.

'Well, um, I'm sure last night was very... enlightening... but I've got to go.'

'Arnie!' Todhunter says, sounding upset. 'So soon?'

'I've... um... got an appointment. At the doctor's.'

'Are you sick?'

'Um.' No. I just want to have my genitals removed and my anus and mouth sewn shut so I never have to experience that again. 'Just... a sore throat.'

'Poor baby,' all three of them chorus.

Rimmer sidles over to the washing machine. Ignoring the fact that his uniform is sopping wet (mostly with water, but he can't be sure) he puts it on, preferring not to ask Todhunter for his underwear. 'So... um... I'll see you later.'

'Call me,' Todhunter says.

'No, call _me_,' Thesen says, earning an elbow from Murray. 'Tham! You know I'm juth joking!'

Rimmer sidles some more, waving goodbye, then exits. As soon as the door has closed behind him he bolts for the nearest toilets and locks himself in a cubicle, retching and coughing. Some thin liquid comes up, but not much else. He rests his cheek on the smooth porcelain of the bowl, ignoring what might have been smeared there over the years, and closes his eyes.

* * *

Lister wakes up in the medi-bay, two beds down from Tim, who is still unconscious. The room is deserted except for the two of them and a skutter, who is mopping the floor. Through Lister's broken nose, the cleaning fluid the little robot is using smells vaguely of banana.

There's a call button beside his hand. Lister pushes it.

'Whatever you were up to last night, don't do it again,' is the first thing the nurse says when she arrives. 'Hear me?' She holds a mirror up in front of his face and Lister recoils from the bruised, bandaged face in it. 'This unit is supposed to be for people who are genuinely ill, not people who start brawls in bars.'

'Brawl?'

'Don't tell me you don't remember.'

'I don't remember.'

She sighs and rolls her eyes. 'I expect you'll remember sooner or later. In the meantime... behave yourself.'

'Can I go now?'

After checking his vital signs (present, which is good enough), she lets him go. Outside their room, he runs into Rimmer. The two men exchange glances.

'Fight?'

'Where have you been?' Lister chooses to reply, pretending his nose isn't broken and most of his head isn't swathed in a white bandage.

'Nowhere.'

Lister voice-accesses the door. There's already someone in there, sitting at their table, toying with a jigsaw puzzle.

'McGruder?' Rimmer's voice is higher-pitched than usual. He hopes that it's just nerves and that no permanent damage has been done... er... _down there_.

McGruder swivels around in the chair, which isn't a swivelly chair, so she almost falls off it. 'You two! Where have you _been_?' She takes a second look at Lister. 'No, wait. I can see where _you've_ been. Medi-bay.' This part of the puzzle solved, she looks at Rimmer. 'Did Todhunter find you?'

Rimmer opens his mouth, sees Lister's facial expression, closes it again. 'Um,' he says finally.

'_Todhunter_?' Lister blinks.

'Um, so why are you here anyway?' Rimmer asks McGruder.

'Sex in my quarters. Kochanski and Fortune. They spilt my body lotion. I hope. I decided to come here and see if you'd been snagged by Todhunter. Holly let me in.'

'_Todhunter_?'

'Holly? Oh, great.' Rimmer's wondering just how much of everything Holly saw last night... hoping desperately it wasn't the part with the inflatable dolphin. 'So Lister got into a fight... what happened to you?'

'I was at the same bar as him, but I think I might've had a little too much to drink.'

'Whose bed did you wake up in?'

'I woke up in the pub... did you wake up with Todhunter?'

'_Todhunter_?'

'You're getting a little repetitive,' McGruder tells Lister, who manages to shut his mouth, but continues staring at Rimmer. 'All I know is Todhunter left the Arcadia last night with Thesen, looking for Rimmer. I don't know if he actually found him or anything.'

Rimmer mutters a few words. Amongst them are, quite possibly, 'bowtie', 'penis', and 'whipped cream'. He attempts to smooth his dishevelled uniform and discovers a handful of M&amp;Ms in the pocket. Another unbidden memory returns. Refusing to speak any further, he crosses the room and disappears into the shower, the pipes soon rattling madly with their load of hot water.

McGruder and Lister are left looking at each other.

'So... Todhunter,' Lister says. 'And Thesen.'

'And since Thesen's shacked up with Murray...'

Lister finishes the sentence, '...he's going to be in there at least _three_ hours.'

'Well,' says McGruder.

'Yes,' says Lister.

'Fancy a drink?'

* * *

There's a note on the door stating that Fortune and Kochanski have gone to 'study' in Kochanski's more opulent room. Both Lister and McGruder are schnockered, but then, they've been drinking for several hours.

'Fortune's not home,' McGruder says, reading the note three times before she can actually comprehend it. 'We've got the place to ourselves.'

'Great,' Lister says, wondering if there's more alcohol in there.

They stumble inside and into the reek of banana. Lister wrinkles his nose, but McGruder has turned to him, looking at him earnestly. With her blurred vision, she's trying to settle on one of him to look at, but manages it in the end.

'Dave...'

'Yvonne?'

'I think I'm drunk.'

'Me too.'

'Because usually I don't think you'd be my type.' And with that she kisses him sloppily on the mouth, tasting the lager on his breath, the taste mingling oddly with her own tequila shots.

* * *

'It could happen to anyone, you know. I mean, it's not abnormal, especially after all those drinks. They call it 'brewer's droop', you know. I'm sure if we wait for the alcohol to wear off, you'll be fine.' McGruder is equally sure that if _her_ alcohol buzz wears off, she'll be kicking his lazy Scouse arse out of her room.

It's okay though. The only response she gets is a wet snore.

* * *

''Von?'

'Yes, Fortune?'

'What's Dave Lister doing passed out in the corridor outside our quarters?'

'It's a long story, but it's Rimmer's fault.'

'Ahhh. Because he slept with Todhunter?'

'Yep.'

'Sometimes, 'Von, you make perfect sense. Other times you sound completely crazy. Utterly insane.'

'Well, if Rimmer hadn't slept with Todhunter, he wouldn't have taken over the shower in his quarters, meaning that Lister wanted to get out and go for a drink with me, and then he wouldn't have come back here, and come in because you were off shagging Kochanski, and then... marshmallowed, and then passed out, and then necessitated me dragging his drunk arse out because he kept farting.'

''Von, take a pill or something, goofball.'


End file.
